


Bodywork

by Elderberry



Series: The Doctor's Doctor [1]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Knock Out is not amused, Lack of Selfcare, M/M, Massage, Medical Procedures
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-16
Updated: 2018-07-16
Packaged: 2019-06-11 12:15:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15315297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elderberry/pseuds/Elderberry
Summary: It had taken Knockout exactly three solar cycles after the dust had settled and the war was finally deemed over, to come to a singular realization. Ratchet, Autobot CMO, most skilled medic likely left in the universe – took abysmal care of himself.Or:Ratchet won't take care of himself and Knockout is tired of self-sacrificing, Autobot slag.





	Bodywork

**Author's Note:**

> Ermm... I have no idea where this came from, especially the middle part but hey, plot bunnies be crazy.
> 
> Enjoy!

It had taken Knockout exactly three solar cycles after the dust had settled and the war was finally deemed over, to come to a singular realization.

Ratchet, Autobot CMO, most skilled medic likely left in the universe – took abysmal care of himself. Such was apparent enough as Knockout sat on a berth in his _own_ med bay aboard the Nemesis and allowed himself to be poked and prodded by the mech in question.

It was a bit irritating. The last thing he needed was a full physical considering he was a medic – and beyond that had always taken exceptional care of himself. But Ratchet had insisted. If he was to be an Autobot, and furthermore a colleague of the old doctor, then Ratchet would be the one to determine the state of his current health.

 _‘Whatever’._ Knockout thought as he absentmindedly lifted a leg, so Ratchet could check the flexibility of his hip struts. He knew he was in near perfect repair and based on the lack of grumbling from Ratchet’s end, the old doctor was coming to that conclusion himself as well.

If anything, Knockout thought to himself once more, the other mech was the one who needed a physical done. The way his joints clicked and creaked as he rose from his crouched position was clearly proof enough of that.

_‘In desperate need of a proper oiling, quite possibly a complete realignment. Primus if he moved any stiffer I’d swear he didn’t have struts at all.’_

“Alright.”

Broken from this thoughts Knockout looked up to meet the other mech’s optics. Holding back a snarky _I told you so,_ he settled instead for a simple “well?” To which Ratchet let out a long ex-vent.

“You’re in peak condition. I just need an energon sample from your lines, so I can check your base metal readings – you can leave after that.” Snatching up a syringe from the medical tray beside him, Ratchet moved with another creak toward the arm Knockout had thrust out before him. It took a moment for his servos to shift plating aside and find the larger, main line running down Knockout’s arm, but once he had he slipped the needle tip in with practiced ease and slowly pulled the plunger back to draw out the necessary energon.

Knockout’s sample was, like the rest of him, near perfect looking. Glowing a bright purplish-blue, good consistency, with an uncloudy opaqueness. It was a clear indicator of the mech’s health, and Ratchet felt both a pang of annoyance and relief flood his processor. On one servo, he was glad Knockout was functioning correctly and required no medical intervention – on the other though, he was a bit peeved to find that even during the dregs of war the other medic had managed to remain relatively unscathed. Turning away, vial in hand, Ratchet made his way over to the processing counter to store the sample with the others he had taken from his team during the last few solar cycles. It was good to have use of a real, functioning med bay again – even if it was aboard the Nemesis.

Dropping the vial into a refrigerated container for later analysis, Ratchet paused for a moment to look over his shoulder at the mech still sitting on the berth behind him.

“You can go now,” he said flippantly, waving a servo at the other in a clear dismissal.

Knockout however, ignored the gesture and instead slipped off the berth and onto his pedes. Rather than leaving, he strode across the room to where Ratchet stood and settled a servo on his shoulder plating. Ratchet felt himself tense beneath the touch, warning systems pinging against the invasion into his personal space.

“What is it?” He snapped, optics narrowing in a dangerous fashion that had Knockout resisting the urge to roll his own at the dramatics.

“Well _doctor…_ ” he all but purred. “Since my examination is finished, I believe it would only be proper for me to… reciprocate, if you would.”

There was no sound in the med bay for the next few moments as Ratchet’s expression went blank. His optics bore into Knockout’s own, going from confusion, to disbelief to a very amusing – in Knockout’s opinion – sort of anger that made his optics dilate and his face plates pull impossibly tight.

“Wh-what?” He barked, plating beginning to flush and cinch in a mixture of embarrassment and anger. In reply Knockout simply lifted a shoulder in a half shrug.

“It seems fitting. When was the last time _you_ had a physical? Or any maintenance work done, for that matter?” Sputtering, Ratchet’s gaze turned deadly as he spun around to fully face Knockout.

“I will have you know,” he begins, tone a tight hiss, and his legendary temper barely restrained. “I am more than capable of maintaining myself! The last thing I require is assistance from the likes of you!”

“Uh-huh. Because walking around here clicking, and creaking is a fine example of proper maintenance.” Knockout replies easily, unswayed by either the anger or affronted posturing of the mech before him. Millenia of dealing with Deceptions, not to mention Breakdown, has left him impervious to such displays of temper.

Outwardly Ratchet says nothing, but his plates clench even tighter and Knockout wonders how that’s even possible. The other doctor is so tense he looks ready to fry a circuit.

Finally, when the air between them has become so thick with tension that if they were required to breathe they would likely choke on it, Knockout sighs. “Well, it’s your choice to let yourself go. But if you ever decide to change your mind, you know where to find me.”

With that he leaves the med bay, _his_ med bay, and saunters easily back to his quarters to catch a few cycles of recharge before his shift later that evening.

\------- 

Much to his annoyance, recharge does not come easily to Knockout that day. He finds his processor is much to occupied by thoughts of Ratchet for him to fall into any sort of rest. The doctor in him can’t ignore the signs of a system in desperate need of a good working over, and he himself can’t ignore promise when he sees it.

So instead of recharge, Knockout finds himself reviewing everything it is he believes Ratchet could benefit from. Without conducting a proper medical scan, he can only speculate. But it’s of little matter, Knockout has spent most of his career speculating.

At the beginning of the war he had been completing his last year at Iacon Medical Academy. Within a short span of time the war had expanded, and Knockout had been forced to abandon his final exams in favor of treating Decepticon soldiers. So, while he had never _technically_ graduated and obtained his medical licence, he had spent the last few million years using his wits and dearth of knowledge to be the best doctor he was capable of. It’s not like he wouldn’t have graduated had he been given the time anyway, he’d been ranked among the top five in his class. It was all just technicality, he supposed.

Instinct told him that Ratchet really did need his struts realigned, it also told him that based on the terribly dingy pallor of his paint, he was in dire need of a base metal supplement. There also seemed to be something off with his self-repair systems, the litany of scratches that covered his frame were shallow enough that they _should_ have healed on their own, but for some reason hadn’t. Finding the origin of the problem would require an in depth medical scan, but Knockout could take a professional guess as to where the problem lied.

Everywhere.

The problem lied everywhere. For all his harping and demands to his patients to take proper care of themselves – to refuel properly, to recharge enough, to not ignore an injury no matter how slight, to defrag their systems nightly – Ratchet did absolutely none of those things himself.

It would cost him, he had to know that. One day he would go to do something and his frame, after millions of years of too much stress, would give out. Knockout had seen it before, seen it in unresponsive bots laid out on a berth in his med bay, optics dim and unfocused – processors full of glitching systems, unable to speak or move for solar cycles on end as he went about trying to fix them. If he could fix them.

They didn’t always pull through.

It’s what worries him most about Ratchet’s lack of selfcare. The idea of him crashing, possibly even off-lining, when they’ve just started to rebuild. Refugee ships are already on their way back to Cybertron bearing thousands of bots looking to make the planet home again, and amongst them very few reported medics.

They needed Ratchet. Functioning, and operational.

Sighing, Knockout rolls over and lets his frame splay out across the berth. He brings an arm up to lay across his face, vents whirring gently in his relaxed state. _'I’ve got to do something; Ratchet’s expertise is to vital to risk losing at this stage. He’s such a stubborn glitch though, I’ll have to use a bit more force if I’m going to get my servos on him.'_

\------- 

Two solar cycles after his physical, Knockout walks into med bay for the night shift and stops dead in his tracks. On the other side of the room, Ratchet sits at his desk. His back is turned toward Knockout and he has removed the shoulder plating from his left side to fix something beneath it. It doesn’t seem to be working though, if the muffled cursing is anything to go by.

Feeling a smile snake across his face, Knockout moves silently across the med bay. This is an opportunity to good to miss – and he intends fully to take it.

“Well now, it seems you could use a bit of help there, doctor.”

Ratchet starts at the unexpected voice, letting out a sharp sound of pain as he draws his servos back from the inner workings of his shoulder. His head snaps up to stare at Knockout, optics wide and alarmed.

“Knockout! What in pits sake are you doing here? Your shift isn’t for another cycle!”

A predatory look has spread across Knockout’s faceplates, and he moves to stand directly behind the other mech.

“I thought I’d pop in a bit early to go over a few things.” He offers no more of an explanation before bringing his own servos down to grasp at Ratchet’s arm, optics narrowing in concentration as he looks over the intricate mass of wires and circuity before him. The problem presents itself in seconds under his trained eye, and he huffs in disbelief at the snapped wires that show clear evidence of past soldering. Beneath his grasp, Ratchet is tense. His frame vibrates more than it should, fans kicking on with a whining sound that definitely wasn’t normal.

“Knockout,” he says after a moment, voice clipped and strained with impatience. “Get your servos off of me.”

In response, Knockout shakes his helm and schools his face to look as berating as possible. “Nope, don’t think so. These wires need to be replaced, not soldered back together for Primus knows what time.” With that he slips the sharp point of one of his digits into the open cavity of Ratchet’s shoulder, beginning the delicate process of cutting away the lengths of dead wire.

For his part, Ratchet remains remarkably still – not even twitching as Knockout’s long, sharp claws delve deeper into the mass of his shoulder. Silence fills the med bay, broken only by the soft whir of vents and the occasional _ting_ as Knockout sets yet another useless piece of wire onto the growing pile on the desk. Ratchet says nothing, but he relaxes minutely as time ticks by – servos unclenching, frame releasing just a bit of tension as his helm drops forward – and it makes things just a bit easier for Knockout.

Finally, after long minutes of work Knockout pulls his servos back from Ratchet’s shoulder. He surveys the open mass with keen eyes, searching to make sure he has found every problem bit and that they have all been cut away, before standing back to his full height and stretching. Ratchet remains still, but he does lift his helm and turn to stare at Knockout. His optics are only half open, and dimmer than Knockout would like them to be. _‘Really needs that base metal supplement.’_ He thinks to himself, while outwardly quirking an optic ridge at the other mech.

They stare at each other for long moments, until Ratchet lets out an ex-vent and breaks optic contact. “I’m not going to thank you.” He grumbles, though there is very little heat behind his words and they come out sounding wearier, more than anything else.

“Never planned on asking for it, my dear medic.”

Knockout doesn’t wait for a reply, he moves instead to the closest cabinet he can find that contains medical supplies and begins rifling through it to find the right size length of wire. When he has located the wire – of the exact same thickness – but of much better quality then what Ratchet has currently running through his shoulder, he makes his way back to his unwilling patient. He sits down easily on the extra stool a few feet from where Ratchet himself sits and lays the wire out across the desk.

Ratchet is watching him, optics still half lidded but otherwise relatively at ease, as Knockout begins slicing the wire to the lengths he will need to replace what has been removed. The work is meticulous, but he has always enjoyed work that requires a keen mind. Each piece must be cut to a different length, the specs for which he has cataloged in his processor from removing the dead predecessors.

“I could have managed on my own.”

He glances up to meet Ratchet’s gaze. There is something glinting in his lazy optics, half resigned, half intrigued, as he studies Knockout.

“You were going to solder them back together even though they should have been replaced the _first_ time they snapped.”

Ratchet rolls his optics at the jab, and in that moment, Knockout really wants to shake him. He knows the other medic is aware of how crucial he is to Cybertron’s reconstruction, let alone to the sanity of the still grieving Team Prime. He floods a bit with anger then and shoots a hard glare in Ratchet’s direction. His servos do not falter in their work, but Knockout wants more than anything to reach over and smack him.

“You’re a self-sacrificing idiot who knows _damn_ well how valuable you are. Tell me where your team, where this planet will be if you up and offline because you can’t be bothered to do a bit of self maintenance?”

Ratchet barks out a laugh, a short, hard sound that fills the empty med bay and leaves a cold tension in its wake.

“I’m a self-sacrificing idiot, am I? What do you know of sacrifice? Of devotion to something other than your own selfish desires, _doctor?_ If you had any inkling of something outside of yourself, you’d be no better off than I am.”

Knockout’s servos still, his optics bore into Ratchet’s own, but they do not fill with the anger Ratchet had been hoping for. Instead they flash with a hollowness so deep and empty it snatches the air from his intakes, and he finds himself unable to look away from whatever abyss is now staring him down.

Silence reins between them, filling up every available space like a ship sinking into water, until finally, Knockout speaks.

_“Breakdown.”_

Knockout puts so much behind the one word that for a moment Ratchet can do little more than continue to stare, processor trying to piece together what feels like a revelation into Knockout’s spark. His mouth works, but he cannot find the words to question why this is so significant, why Breakdown is so significant as to warrant such a heartrending look to fill the other mechs optics.

“He was my Conjunx Endura for over eight million years.”

The admission slams into Ratchet with a force so hard he tightens his servos against the edge of the desk, intakes drawing in a shuddering breath as the gravity of what Knockout has said crashes into him.

“But – but how… how are you still…”

“Functioning? Alive? How do I climb out of my berth everyday?”

Ratchet nods, still unable to find the words he wants to say, and Knockout counters by shaking his helm and bringing a servo up to scrub tiredly at his face.

“I just do.” He says evenly, optics hardening back over with a resolve that until now Ratchet had always assumed to be cocksureness. “He wouldn’t want it any other way.”

 _‘Optimus wouldn’t either.’_ A voice in Ratchet’s processor whispers, a voice he had been shoving back down into the depths of his spark since the day his oldest friend had walked off into the well.

“Knockout, I’m sorr-”

“Don’t” Knockout cuts him off, waving a servo in the air between them. “I’m not the one who needs the apology.”

A flush of shame spreads through Ratchet’s frame, and he lets out a heavy ex-vent because Knockout is right. His team, his planet, _Optimus_ deserve an apology – because in the back of his processor, he knew what he had been doing.

“Now, are you going to stop being such a stubborn glitch and let me look you over, or am I going to have to call your friends in here, so I can tell them what sort of state you’ve let yourself fall into?”

“Go ahead.”

And with that acquiescence the wave of strut deep exhaustion he’d been shoving back for at least the last millennia finally crested, washing over him like a heavy blanket he didn’t have the strength to remove.

“Good. You look like slag.”

With another wave of his servo, Knockout gestures to the empty medical berth situated a few feet away. Getting onto his pedes requires effort, but Ratchet manages to lumber over to it. He spreads himself, face down, along the soft surface and draws in another long intake. It feels good to be laid out like this, and he wonders muzzily how long it has been since his last, proper, recharge.

Knockout is at his side a minute later, all moving servos as he sets about replacing the bits of wire he’d stripped from Ratchet’s shoulder earlier. It is an easy enough procedure, one Ratchet himself has preformed countless times on other bots, and Knockout is, he admits to himself, more then proficient. The job is done in less then ten minutes, and Ratchet rotates his shoulder when asked – glad to find that the century old pain is gone.

“Now, I’m going to run a diagnostic on you. I don’t like the color of your paint – and not because of bad aesthetic choices, although white really is a _terrible_ main color.”

Ratchet can tell when the scanner passes over him. It leaves a tingling sensation in its wake that makes him shudder. A series of loud, angry sounding beeps start up a second later, and he presses his face deeper into the berth, because he knows what they mean – and none of it is good.

Knockout says nothing, and for that, Ratchet is glad. He doesn’t want to know the results, he can fathom them well enough because he’s had many bots on his table in a similar state. The term he had always tacked to it was burnout, and he knows that this is what has been plaguing him for millennia.

 _‘A classic case.’_ He thinks bitterly.

He is lost enough in his thoughts that he jumps a bit when Knockout’s servo touches his arm, and the other medic tsks at him in feigned irritation.

“Now, I know you are usually on the other end of this, but I need you to stay still for me.”

The moment he lets himself relax again Knockout begins shifting the plating of his arm aside. He is obviously searching for the main energon line that runs along it, and once found, Ratchet feels the cold sting of a sterile wipe. A second later he feels a pinch, then the sensation of something being pushed into the vein.

“There.” Knockout says, voice sounding pleased. “You’ve been needing that.”

With the base metal supplement now flowing though Ratchet’s lines, Knockout takes a second to survey the prone mech – mind turning over what he must do, and how long it will take. The supplement injection is just one of many Ratchet will need in the following weeks to bring his levels back up to where they should be, and along with it, plenty of quality energon. Whatever slag the Autobot’s had been using as fuel during their time on earth clearly was not cutting it, and Knockout made a mental note to take a closer look at the others. They all would likely benefit from being put on a supplement.

For now, though, his main concern is Ratchet.

Setting the syringe aside to be properly disposed of later, Knockout ponders what his next course of action should be. The scan he had taken of Ratchet earlier had turned up a host of problems that needed dealing with, but many of them were small things that his self-repair protocols would deal with once they were running within optimal parameters again.

_‘The bigger issues, then.’_

Servo’s move down to hip plating, and with a few well-placed presses Knockout has the armor detached. He sets it to the side, ignoring Ratchet’s grunt of discomfort, and lets his servos settle on the exposed struts.

“I’m going to realign these.”

It is the only warning he gives before pulling.

Ratchet finds himself holding in a bark of pain as a sharp ache shoots from hip to lower back. He grits his denta – glad the other cannot see the look on his face – as Knockout continues to pull, waiting for the telltale _click_ of struts settling back into their proper location.

Above him, Knockout makes a sound of frustration and pulls even harder – it causes coolant prick at Ratchet’s optics – and then something _shifts_ , and the awaited _click_ fills his audios.

Ratchet cannot hold back the groan of relief as all at once the dull, nagging pain present for centuries fades away. A pleasant tingle shoots up his spine as wires and tension lines relax, no longer pulled by the misalignment of his hips.

Knockout grins, and though Ratchet cannot see it, he can feel it in the tone of the others voice.

“Mm, now that’s better. Got to love these magic servos of mine.”

Ratchet wants to tell him to shut up, that the relief that follows realigning struts does _not_ make one’s servos magic, but then Knockout starts _rubbing_ at the place where hip meets lower back and every thought in his processor promptly shuts down.

“Nng.”

The noise is the only thing that slips out as Knockout continues rolling wires and lines in his servos, soothing out kinks and chasing the remaining bits of tension until Ratchet feels like he is melting into the berth. It feels fragging amazing, and his HUD pings happily as old aches and pains unravel beneath the talented servos manipulating his frame.

Knockout grins again, as he takes in the prone form beneath him. He has always enjoyed this, playing a bot’s frame until they were little more than a limp pile of pleasure willingly laid out under his touch. And Ratchet is definitely willing now, making small, pleased sounds as Knockout continues to knead at his lower back.

“Good?” He hums, moving upward to rub at the wiring underneath his shoulders. The action drags another chocked sound out of Ratchet, who twitches, servos curling against the berth as Knockout digs into to a tightly wound cluster of wire.

He continues for long spans of time, working up and down until Ratchet stops his sounds of pleasure/pain and his vents even out into a steady hum. He is clearly on the cusp of recharge, and Knockout eases his touch to a soft stroke.

He is part way through deciding what his next course of action will be – an energon drip, most likely – when Ratchet shifts, turning his helm so his barely open optics stare up at Knockout.

“Thank you.”

Knockout barely catches it, the words so low they are little more than a whisper, but something in his spark twists at the sincerity behind them, a small bloom of warmth radiating throughout his frame. He covers the strange feeling with a huff and brings a servo up to settle on Ratchet’s helm.

“Go to recharge, I’ll take care of whatever comes up while you’re out.”

Ratchet’s optics close before he finishes his sentence, engine powering down into a low, humming idle as the long overdue rest finally pulls him under.

Knockout sighs, shaking his own helm as he goes about setting up an energon drip to bring the other medic’s levels up while he recharges, a lone thought bouncing about his processor.

_‘Fragging stubborn Autobots, if they’re all like this I’ve go my work cut out for me.’_

**Author's Note:**

> I had only ever wanted this fic to be G rated, but I almost felt compelled to write a smut scene at the end of it. If anyone is interested in a smutty ending, let me know and I'll write it!


End file.
